


Conflicting Relationships

by TWFKA3I



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-05
Updated: 2017-05-05
Packaged: 2018-10-28 08:01:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10827138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TWFKA3I/pseuds/TWFKA3I
Summary: Relationships are difficult.





	Conflicting Relationships

"You have to talk to me." Daddy says this to me frequently.

"Don't speak. This is one way communication. The only thing that comes out of your mouth is Yes, Sir." My dad said this to me frequently.

I don't talk to my Dad. Daddy talks to me. I say "Yes, Sir".

 

I think “I don’t agree with that, Daddy”. I say “Yes Sir, that makes sense.”  
I think “Daddy, I’m hurt right now.” I say “No, I’m fine.”

I am insecure and terrified and vulnerable and I need to cry. I take off my clothes and beg “Please fuck me, Daddy”.

He asks “Hey baby did you want a beating?”  
“No,” I think. “Not right now. No, I really don’t. No, I’m tired. No, I don’t want a beating.”  
What comes out of my mouth? “Yes please Daddy! Of course!”

 

I guess it's true what my father says. That I’m a pathological liar. I tell people what I think they want to hear. I’m usually right. People want to hear that their soup was amazing. They want to think that they’re attractive. They want to think that they say the right things and do the right things. They want to think that they’re making you happy. It's fine. They can think that. I know how to make myself happy. I always know the right things to tell myself. I know what I like. I know what to give myself. 

 

Daddy tells me to ask for what I want. I ask to cut. He doesn’t respond.

I text him: “Daddy may I please do a cutting”  
30 minutes later he replies: “Hello dear.”  
I text hello back.  
He doesn’t give permission. I don’t cut. I go to bed.

 

I am awoken by my racing heart and the thunder and the tree branches hitting the window. ‘He cannot get you’, I say to myself. ‘He does not know where you live. He does not know where you sleep. You are safe here.’

Yeah I know. I don't believe it either. I double check the locks on my door and window. They are secure. I stay awake and on guard the rest of the night anyway.  
The next day my therapist asks me how I'm doing. 

 

I succumb to the need for food. I eat 1110 calories of rice and vegetables and shrimp and chicken and my body glorifies God while my mind heaps scorn upon me for my failure. I argue with myself about whether I deserve juice or not. I decide that I do, but only if I don’t eat again that day. Good news: I didn’t eat again. But I didn’t drink the juice either.


End file.
